by Emma Chase
Chapter 12
On Friday night, there’s an art show at one of my favorite galleries downtown—the Agora. For the upper crust of New York, art appreciation is like a girl going out for the cheerleading squad in high school. Often, it’s got very little to do with a love of the “sport,” and a whole lot to do with the status symbol.
But I actually enjoy art—beautiful paintings, interesting sculptures. Although I could do without performance and certain modern pieces—pissing in a jar and calling it art is not my idea of fucking talent.
I swing by Dee’s at seven, but I leave my bike at home. Delores told me she’s wearing a dress, so she’ll definitely prefer taking a cab to the gallery.
And what a dress it is. When she opens her apartment door, all I can do is stare. My mouth hangs open—drooling is definitely possible.
It’s sleeveless and short—accentuating her long, toned limbs. Bright blue and green geometric-dotted fabric covers her ample breasts and the lower half of the dress. But the stomach and chest area are cut away, covered by a thin, sheer black material. I’ve never seen a dress like it—the definition of sexy.
Finally closing my mouth, I hold up the large bouquet of red roses I bought for her.
’Cause, yeah, I’m smooth like that.
Dee’s extremely grateful. Holding the roses in one hand, she trails the other down the lapel of my charcoal gray suit, over my stomach, and cups my junk in her hand.
It’s unexpected, but always a pleasant surprise.
“They’re beautiful. Thank you,” she whispers while stroking my dick, before pressing her strawberry-flavored lips to mine.
After she pulls back, I murmur, “The priceless art doesn’t seem so interesting anymore. Maybe we should just stay in?”
“Oh no, this is a dress that needs to be seen. And . . . you look way too hot in that suit to stay home.”
Can’t really argue with that.
Unlike the exhibitions at major museums like the Met, private gallery shows are smaller, more intimate affairs. Although it’s open to the public, typically only serious buyers attend, and the wine and hors d’oeuvres served by the white-gloved attendants are chosen specifically to cater to the expensive tastes of those patrons.
Both of us enjoy a glass of white wine as we peruse the photographs and paintings on the walls. The floors of the gallery are natural wood—the walls, stark white, with dramatic overhead lighting accenting each piece. Guests are scattered around the maze-like rooms, voicing their opinions of the works in hushed, pretentious tones. Delores and I are alone in one partitioned area, whose walls are dotted with vibrantly colored and variously sized canvases depicting a wide range of subjects.
“Which one’s your favorite?” I ask.
“Why? Are you going to buy one?”
The prices aren’t displayed, but I know from experience that any of these pieces will easily go for tens of thousands of dollars.
“Thinking about it.”
But that’s not why I asked.
Art preference is very personal, almost subconscious. It’s the same as learning if a guy prefers boxers, briefs, or going commando—art teaches a boatload about the kind of person you are.
Dee strolls the perimeter of the room, stopping in front of a painting of a white farmhouse on top of a hill, with a fiery red-and-orange sky on the horizon.
“Katie would like this one.”
“How come?”
She tilts her head. “It’s very neat—cozy and safe. But the sky . . . there’s kind of a wild side to it too.”
I point to a piece on the opposite wall. “Drew would go for that one.”
She glances at it. “Because it’s a picture of a naked woman?”
I chuckle. “Yes. And . . . because it doesn’t try to be something it’s not. It’s not a picture of a flower that’s really a vagina—like it or hate it, it is what it is. Drew’s a big fan of the direct approach.”
“Which one do you like best?” she asks.
Immediately I point to a Jackson Pollock that’s not for sale. It’s busy with splashes and swirls of every color against a black background. Dee approaches it, looking closer, as I tell her, “Looking at it never gets old—I see something new every time.” I glance back at Dee. “Which brings me back to my original question: Which one is your favorite?”
She opens her small green purse and takes her phone out. She scrolls through the pictures on it before handing it to me.
“That’s my favorite.”
I look at the screen. “That’s the periodic table.”
She shrugs. “To me, it’s a masterpiece. Harmonious. Perfectly organized. Dependable.”
“Aren’t some of the elements unstable?”
She smiles. “Sure, but the table tells you which ones they are. No surprises. No disappointments.”
And this right here is the perfect example of who Delores is. Safety-goggle-wearing chemist by day, glitter-covered club girl by night. She wants excitement, spontaneity, but a part of her—the part that’s been dicked around by one too many pricks in the past—craves reliability. Honesty. Truth.
I want to give her both. I want to be her roller coaster and her merry-go-round, her adventurer and her protector. Her impressionist and her periodic table.
As the show winds down, most of the guests congregate in the main reception room of the gallery. While Dee goes to the ladies’ room, I stare at a huge sculpture in the corner, trying to figure out what it’s supposed to be—either an endless cavern or a swamp monster.
I don’t notice the person who comes up beside me until she speaks.
“I’m thinking of acquiring this piece for my music room. It has a very inspirational energy, don’t you agree?”
It’s Rosaline. She’s well put together in a strapless beige dress, with her dark hair piled on top of her head—not a strand out of place.
And she’s smiling at me . . . like the spider to the fly.
“I’d say more confusing than inspirational. It doesn’t seem to know what it is.”
“Perhaps that’s because it’s willing to be anything you want it to be.”
The tone of her voice, the playfulness in her eyes—I’m pretty sure she’s coming on to me.
“Do you still dabble in photography, Matthew?”
“I do.”
She giggles softly. “Do you remember that time we went out to Breezy Point and drank too much of that awful Chablis? Your camera got a lot of use that day.”
I remember the day she’s talking about. We were young and worry-free and drunk on cheap wine and each other. But I don’t look back fondly on any moment with Rosaline. If you have a can of white paint and add a drop of black, the whole batch will be tainted. Gray.
The memories that should mean the most—the starry-eyed, first-love kind—they just make me sick. Because every touch, every word and kiss . . . none of it was real.
Before I can respond, Delores is back at my side, holding my arm comfortably. “There are paintings hanging in the ladies’ room! How do you think those artists feel? Their work is in a respected, renowned gallery . . . but only in the shitter.”
For just a second, Rosaline’s expression turns sour. Then—like the actress she is—she covers it with courtesy. “Well . . . hello. I’m Rosaline Du Bois Carrington Wolfe. And you are?”
“I’m Dee.”
“Dee what?”
With a toss of her hair, like some blond bombshell from the forties, she says, “Just Dee.”
“Do you and Matthew . . . work together?”
Dee just laughs. “Do I look like a banker?”
“No . . . I wouldn’t say you do.” Her eyes cut to Dee’s dress, and her voice takes on that bitchy, passive-aggressive tone that I can’t stand on a woman. “Your dress is much too . . . bold . . . for a banker. Not every woman would be so . . . brave . . . to wear something so unusual.”
Delores smiles sweetly—but there’s a bite to it. “So nice of you to say. And your dres
s, it’s so very . . . beige.”
Rosaline caresses the fabric modestly. “Well, you know what they say—less is more.”
Dee looks her right in the eyes. “And sometimes less is . . . just less.”
She lets the jab hang for a moment. Then she turns to me. “I love this song. Do you want to dance?”
Instrumental music has been floating around the room all night. The song Dee loves is a jazzy, wordless version of “Unforgettable” by Nat King Cole.
Rosaline chuckles. “My dear, that’s just background music. No one actually dances at these things.”
Delores shrugs. “Life is short—I never pass up the chance to dance to a good song. Matthew, what do you say?”
I take Dee’s hand and kiss it softly, so proud of her right now. “I say, I’d dance with you anywhere.”
Then I lead her to the middle of the room. As we pass Rosaline, Dee whispers, “Lovely to meet you, dahling. Ta-ta.”
I take her in my arms and begin a smooth, easy fox-trot. Dee follows my lead effortlessly. “Wow, look at you, Fred Astaire. I didn’t know you could dance like this.”
“I’m very talented.”
She grins. “Believe me, I know.” Her eyes slide in Rosaline’s direction. “Sooo . . . is every woman you introduce me to going to be a bitch?”
I think it’s over. “No—she was the last of them.”
“Is she an ex-girlfriend or something?”
No man wants to tell the story of how he was played—made a chump. It’s embarrassing, uncomfortable—we generally choose to block it out and replace it with stories of our winning touchdowns and all-night fuck fests.
“Or something. Why do you ask?”
“It feels like she’s trying to slit my throat with her eyes.”
Skillfully, I turn us, so my body obscures her view.
But Dee still says, “She’s very beautiful—like a Victoria’s Secret model.”
“Baby, she doesn’t hold a candle to you.”
She stops dancing. Fully. Immediately. And her face—her gorgeous face is a mixture of hurt and doubt . . . and a trace of resentment.
“Don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Don’t feed me a line like I’m a girl you just met in a bar. Tell me you hate her, or tell me you want to fuck her brains out, and either way, I’ll deal. Whatever you say, just . . . mean it. Be here with me . . . be real.”
She’s right. Right on the money. Reflexes are a body’s reaction without input from the brain. They happen independently—without thought or consideration. Insecurity is not something I’m used to hearing from Dee. And I sure as shit don’t want to keep talking about Rosaline, so I said the first thing that came to my lips. Without thinking.
Without meaning it.
And she deserves better than that.
“I . . . I’m sorry.” I pull her back to me, and we’re dancing again, slower than before.
Dee rests her cheek against mine, and I kiss the shell of her ear before whispering, “What I meant to say was, she’s beautiful—but only on the outside. You, on the other hand . . . you’re like a diamond. Clear . . . and flawless . . . through and through.”
She tilts her head up to look at me. And she’s smiling again. And I feel like a master of the universe.
“I like that much better.”
I brush my hand up her arm, over her shoulder, under her hair to the back of her neck. Then I kiss her softly. Tenderly. I worship her lips, venerate her tongue. It’s wet and wonderful—the kind of kiss that makes you forget you’re in a public place—or if you do remember, that makes you not give a flying fuck.
When the music and the kiss end, Delores licks her lips. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Great idea.”
When we get back to my apartment, Delores takes off her heels, dropping each one with a thud as she walks straight to the stereo system.
“Do you want some wine?” I ask.
Her eyes rake over me appreciatively. “I’m not thirsty for wine.”
As she plays with the buttons, I press up behind her, skimming my lips across her neck and my fingers up her sides. The speakers come alive with “Demons” by Imagine Dragons. Dee presses the REPEAT button and swivels her ass against me.
“I like this song,” she says.
“I like this dress.”
She turns to face me. And her breath tickles my ear as she whispers, “You’re going to like what’s underneath it a lot more.”
She drags my jacket off my arms and drops it on the floor. I take her mouth, and she makes quick work of my shirt. Her hands glide over my chest as she backs me up, wordlessly guiding me to the couch. I sit back, expecting her to follow me down.
But she doesn’t. Instead she stands up.
And the heat in her eyes—the hunger—makes my heart pound. She retrieves my camera from the coffee table, then she kneels between my spread knees, presenting it to me, like an offering.
“Take my picture, Matthew.”
I breathe heavy—almost a grunt. And my cock aches with anticipation. Of watching her, touching her, and yes, photographing her.
On some level, every guy wants to be a porn star. I mean, really, can you conceive of a more awesome way to make a living? Disneyland may be the happiest place on earth, but Silicone Valley is the place men’s wishes come true. Homemade sex tapes and photographs allow men—and women—to taste that fantasy. To reminisce and relive the most erotic experiences of their lives.
If that’s too wild for your tastes, you may want to skip this next part.
Dee smiles when I take the camera from her hands. I double-check the film and the battery while she stands up and sways her hips in time with the music. Her eyes close, her head rocks side to side, her shiny, strawberry-blond locks fan out around her as she spins.
And she looks so . . . free. So beautifully unrestrained.
It takes my breath away.
I capture the moment with eager hands. Click, click, click goes the shutter.
She reaches behind her, pressing her tits forward, releasing the zipper on her dress. Unhurriedly, she peels it off her body. Revealing a sheer, black, strapless bra trimmed in bright blue with a matching thong. Her breasts are firm and high and completely visible through the shadowy fabric—including my favorite plaything, Dee’s sparkling diamond nipple piercing.
Her dress lays forgotten on the floor as she gyrates and turns. I lick my suddenly dry lips, refocus the lens of the camera, and shoot.
Click, click.
Delores’s hands slide down her thighs then skim up her stomach, cupping her breasts the way I want to. My fingers twitch and I grip the camera tighter.
Click, click.
My voice is rough as I say, “Come here, Dee.”
And miraculously, she actually does. The moment she steps close enough, I pull her down on top of me, one hand fisting in her hair, the other kneading her smooth, tight ass.
She moans against my lips. Then her hands fumble with my belt, pushing my pants and boxers down in one fell swoop. Taking her—and the camera—with me, I slide from the couch to my knees, then down onto the floor. The fabric of Dee’s lingerie feels whisper soft against my straining cock—but not as soft as her skin.
I lay her down flat, then I rear back. Keeping eye contact, I slide her almost nonexistent panties off first. When I tug at the peek-a-boo bustier, it rips up both sides, but I don’t let that stop me.
“I’ll buy you a new one,” I promise gruffly.
Dee gives the slightest nod.
When she’s beautifully bare, ready and writhing, I pick the camera back up.
Click, click, click, click.
I set the camera down, close by, and cover Dee’s body with my own—giving all my attention to her amazing breasts. I squeeze with one hand while I worship the other with my mouth. I lick around her nipple, then I encase it with my lips—scraping with my teeth, flicking with my tongue, suckling hard until Dee cries out
in that stunning symphony of elation and pain.
Then I start all over again with its exquisite twin.
“Do you like my tits, Matthew?” Dee moans.
I rub the pink peak with my firm tongue, then answer, “I love them. They’re perfect. I could do this all fucking night.”
“You like licking them?” She whimpers.
“Yes.”
“Pinching them?” She sighs.
“Yes.”
“Sucking on them?”
“Shit, yes.”
“Do you want to fuck them, Matthew?”
White-hot need goes straight to my cock—making me moan. Because giving her breasts a thorough fucking is a fantasy I’ve courted since the second I laid eyes on them.
“Yes,” I practically beg. “God, yes, I fucking want that.”
She smiles, tantalizingly. A perfect seductress—the face and body of an angel with a devil’s desire. All willing and wanting.
“Me too.”
Delores glides down beneath me, trailing kisses as she goes, pausing when her face is directly under my raging erection. As I hover over her, she takes me into the superb wetness of her mouth, all the way—until I feel the tightness of her throat. She eases back, leaving a heavy coating of moisture behind when she removes her mouth.
I rise up onto my knees. Dee lies between them, her breasts overflowing in her own hands, perfectly aligned with my cock above them. Gently, I sit back, bracing most of my weight on my calves. She presses her breasts together, encasing my rigid dick between their perfect, slick softness.
I savor the sensation. My eyes squeeze shut.
“Fuck me.”
There’s a smile in her voice as she tells me, “That’s my line.”
I want to move—I want to pound against her in a frenzied rush until I find that paradise that I know is just waiting to be reached.
But I hold back—and force myself to go easy. To let her take the lead. I open my eyes and meet Dee’s fiery gaze. She pushes her tits up and down—jerking me off with them—again and again.
The feeling—Jesus Christ—it’s more incredible than I ever conceived.
